


Haunting

by Patchworkcrows



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patchworkcrows/pseuds/Patchworkcrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ib likes routine.<br/>Ib talks to her boyfriend.<br/>Ib has an obsession with the art gallery. </p><p>Maybe something's left a real impression on her.</p><p>Autism-Spectrum Ib</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boyfriend

  _I’ve got a boyfriend now_

_And he’s made of gold_

Nathaniel has put up with a lot.

She has put up with a lot as well, but it is all normal everyday things.

Tutoring, loaning money, letting his sister third wheel because she gets lonely.

They are normal things that happen to normal people. Things her friends in high school had dealt with just as much as she did. Does.

Nathaniel has dealt with the _odd_ aspects of her life.

The frequent trips to the art gallery, the search for anything even vaguely Guertena related, the nightmares and the follow-up phone calls at four in the morning.

Maybe that is why his fingers are curled so tight around his ice cream float. Maybe that is why he is looking at her with so much disappointment.

He had _asked_ her where she wanted to go for their anniversary.

“Five years now,” he had said when she asked him how long they’d been together. These things tended to slip her mind. “It’s supposed to be important,” he explained when she didn’t quite get why he had brought it up in the first place.

Well there was no other answer she could give. It was the same every time. She didn’t understand why it was a question in the first place. Where else would she want to go?

“Don’t you think that’s just… not all that _special_ anymore?” Nathaniel’s voice was tight. He was trying that patience thing again.

She shook her head. What wasn’t special about it?

“Well you go there all the time, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said because that was true. She _did_ go there all the time.

“Well that just makes it less special, doesn’t it?”

“No,” she told him. How did the frequent visits diminish its value? It was important to her. She liked going there so why wasn’t it an alright answer?

He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, adjusted the cap on his head, and took a quiet sip at his slowly melting drink. When he finished, he looked back up at her in the eyes. She liked eye contact. He liked eye contact. They were a very good match.

“We go there for almost every date,” he started softly, reaching out for her hand. She didn’t pull away. He squeezed it gently, resting his just on top. “Don’t you want change?”

She shook her head. She liked how things were. She had a certain way of doing things.

She had lived in this town for all of her life and things weren’t very complicated.

She woke up in the morning, she got dressed, she brushed her teeth and ate breakfast, she went to school (now replaced with an internship and college courses), she took her packed lunch from the night before and ate on her break at the art gallery in front of the same painting as the day before, she went back to work, she went home, she got cleaned up, she ate dinner with her family, she packed leftovers into a lunchbox, she did homework, she went to bed. Rinse and repeat, throw in calling Nathaniel or spending an hour with Nathaniel depending on the day, make exceptions for weekends where they go to the same cafe as they’re sitting at now, followed by a stroll through the park and then in the art gallery-

She does not like change.

Change is upsetting.

Change is an unwanted variable.

Change does not give her control- She does not _like_ when she does not have control.

Silence passes between them. His other hand grips the half-empty ice cream float. His eyes bear into hers, sad and disappointed.

“I can’t do this,” he says to her. The words are honest and well worn in. He’s been saying these words for a while now but this is the first time she’s hearing them. She can tell he’s been saying them for a while because they’re tired and Nichola has whispered and sat inbetween them on more dates than she can now count. This has been said at home in the privacy of his well furnished walls. These words have found shelter in his sister. He has said this numerous times and he has tried finding some ground- some grip to hold onto again but he has stumbled and is falling down and she can’t reach out and pull him back up.

Her hand fumbles a bit underneath his but their fingers don’t match up. There’s a looseness. She does not like how his hand feels against hers. They do not fit.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him.

“I know,” he replies.

They sit in silence.

He grabs the check.

She handles the tip.

“Do you want to keep trying?” he asks her when they stand up to leave. His drink is still on the table, half-empty and forgotten. The rest is going to be thrown away.

She doesn’t say anything and purses her lips together.

“We can keep trying,” he continues. Nathaniel does not enjoy silence. “We can go to a couple’s therapist.”

It’s supposed to be important, five years. That’s why Nathaniel stumbles and tries to salvage it.

She doesn’t like change.

“Why aren’t we fine?” she asks.

His hand finds hers but it’s awkward. It doesn’t fit.

“I don’t know,” he sounds serious. “I just don’t know.”

She pulls away slowly.

This is the part where they go on their walk through the park.

“Do you want to leave?”

It’s something she’s heard before. Nathaniel has told his sister how he’s tired of small towns. Nathaniel wants to explore. She’s asked what he’s going to do if he leaves. How is he going to make it without a job or home? His answer is a shrug. It’s a vague story. She doesn’t want to leave.

“Yes.”

“You should leave.” There’s no anger or sadness. There’s no exhaustion. She is happy in her little life. She wants him to be happy too.

He knows this.

Nathaniel adjusts his cap again.

They both don’t say goodbye, but she keeps moving forward as he stands back, small smile on his face.

“Ib…” his voice is soft.

It reminds her of something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm tired and I've been listening to Haunting for hours and it reminds me of Ib and I just decided to write something based off of it. I've got no idea where this is going to go because I haven't thought out any of it. We'll see where it goes I guess.
> 
> Not much atm other than a small music drabble. Sort of a 'let it take me where it wants to go' experiment.
> 
> Nathaniel and Nichola are from the game "A Vague Story" which is super good. Check it out.


	2. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life keeps moving forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get to the Fabricated World, don't worry your heads.

_And I try to wash you away_

_But you just won’t leave_

Routine finds her in no time.

She wakes up in the morning, she gets dressed, she brushes her teeth and eats breakfast, she goes to her classes and internship, she takes her packed lunch from the night before and eats it on her break at the art gallery in front of the same painting as the day before, she goes back to work, she goes home, she gets cleaned up, she eats dinner with her family, she packs leftovers into a lunchbox, she does homework, she goes to bed.

It is two months after her breakup and Ib is doing just fine.

She makes small talk with her family, she reminds her mother time and time again that she’s alright and that the breakup was for the best, she talks to old school friends on the weekends, she visits the cafe and the gallery.

Three months later she applies for another job, this time at the art gallery.  Unlike her internship, she’ll be getting more hours and with summer quickly approaching and her classes all finished except for finals, Ib will have the time to work full time. They have an opening for archiving the collections. Since she is still an undergraduate, she’ll mostly be shadowing one of her superiors and handling other jobs as well.

Three months and a half and her application goes through successfully. Her interview goes well and she is hired by the end of the month. Her family celebrates, questions are asked about when she’ll be finding another boyfriend, Ib smiles for appearances sakes and politely says ‘she’ll see’.

Nathaniel was the one who asked her out in high school.

Ib said yes because Nathaniel was a nice boy. They spoke. He made eye contact. He was attractive. Her parents liked him.

Ib has never had a crush on a boy. She _loved_ Nathaniel but that was long after they started dating. There was no crush involved.

She is not heartbroken over the breakup. It was inevitable.

She just doesn’t have any interest in anyone else.

Her last final is taken the second week of May. She takes her packed lunch and sits in the art gallery on her break from her internship - which ends this weekend - right smack dab in the middle of a bench across from The Forgotten Portrait.

Silently, she eats last night’s leftovers seated on her lap, staring ahead. She has stared at this painting time and time again. Without looking, Ib can describe each brushstroke, each subtle change in color - where Guertena had mixed a new palette - and every curve of the man’s face.

Ib blinks back at the portrait.

Her mother teased her when she begged to come back to the gallery to see it. She said it was “Ib’s husband”. For a while, her father was actually worried. He had suggested Ib see a therapist, that there was too much fascination and obsession with the painting. Her mother had lightly slapped his wrist and scoffed.

“You just don’t get art- Our daughter’s learned to appreciate an artist’s work, I’m not going to stifle that!”

After the first four or so visits, they got a membership to the museum for Ib.

Since she could finally go out on her own, Ib has been to the gallery nearly every single day. She knows all the security guards and staff on the floor. She’s even spoken with her new superior before being hired, another reason why the interview went so well.

Ib blinks again, dazed, shaking her head. Her watch chimes. Lunch break’s over. It takes five minutes for her to walk back to work so she always leaves five minutes early.

Packing up her things, she throws one last glance at the painting and frowns.

Sometimes it feels like she’s being watched.

She doesn’t know if she likes that.


	3. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib's routine gets jumbled up and an unexpected announcement is made.

  _So won’t you take a breath_

_And dive in deep?_

It’s a normal day if you ignore the things that have occurred in just the past few hours.

Ib has woken late to work and calls in as she begins to get dressed.

This bothers her as she has not been late to anything in years.

Her parents have already left for work and without them there to remind her that it’s always wise to eat breakfast regardless if you’re rushing, Ib flies out the front door with a light jacket, a manilla folder that’s been carefully organized and filed, and a book. As she starts walking down the street at a brisk pace, Ib comes to the realization that she has forgotten both her umbrella and her lunch.

She arrives at work soaked to the bone, her shoes squeaking against the tile floor. It brings up the feeling of deja vu, but she can’t find the answer lodged in her brain so she lets the feeling slip away slowly. Following after her boss/supervisor, she silently listens to them discuss the importance of being on time and apologizes when they’ve come to the end of their reprimanding.

When she is finally released, she’s gets down to business and works diligently in silence. She makes a few notes about the sketches she’s just gone over and sets everything down when her stomach growls in protest. Today’s an off day.

Going on her lunchbreak early, she stops in front of the doors she’s just exited and glances at the security guard posted there - a stone faced man who almost never says a word, but she knows that he has a wife and child. She’s seen him at the local park before on weeks and even once she sat down with Nathaniel to watch the baseball game unfold. Ib did not know much about sports but even she could tell the team had an advantage on the field when he was up to bat.

Unlike the rest of the guards posted in the museum, however, his name alludes her. This, however, is normal. He doesn’t quite seem to be in a rush to have her know it either.

“Is it still raining?” she asks him, as if he might know.

The upper part of his face isn’t visible due to the brim of his security hat that casts a shadow on it, but she imagines that he’s forking an eyebrow at her. It’s a vibe she gets. His mouth’s in a straight unamused line and if she didn’t understand the value of silence, Ib might think he was ignoring or her hadn’t heard her at all. She knows this is his answer, though. He has no idea.

“Could you ask?” she tries.

He lifts his walkie talkie without a word and switches it on. “Is it raining?” his voice carries a slight faint accent lost over time from living away from his homeland. It’s disinterested, but she knows it has nothing to do with her and has more to do with the state of the weather.

There’s a few voices over the device. A few guards asking how they should know, some chiming in that ‘it was when I got in’, and lastly followed by a guard near the entrance or some exit.

“Check that. We’ve got an outright _downpour_ \- There is some real _heavy rain_ out th-”

“That’s all,” he cuts the other man off and sets the walkie back down by his side. His head hasn’t moved since she’s come out of the staff only room, but she knows he’s looking back at her again, quietly asking her if that’s all.

She nods and starts to walk away.

With the confirmation that if she goes out, she’ll get wet again, she decides to head to the gift shop. Buying an umbrella here and lunch outside of the museum would _still_ be cheaper than the cafeteria. She walks into the store and searches for a bit of time before finding an all red umbrella. Red being her favorite color, it’s a no brainer that she settles on that one over the plain black one.

She stares at the umbrella a moment longer than necessary, though. The feeling of deja vu returns tenfold. She’s seen an umbrella very similar to this one.

Which is obvious. She’s seen rain hundreds of times now and of course she’s seen at least double that number of umbrellas before. But something about this color and shape just screams familiar. It leaves her a little uneasy and she goes to put it back down before shaking her head. It’s ridiculous. This is her favorite color.

She takes out her wallet and stands at the register. The name tag on the cashier says ‘Zacharie’, but she doesn’t recognize his face. He must be new here.

“Buenos dias, la demoiselle!” he chimes cheerfully, chuckling to himself. “Now let me see that cash.”

The mix of Spanish and French in the same sentence leave her confused as she searches for exact change.

Much like the security guard, he also has an accent, but his is more prominent. While the guard’s accent had been distinctly French, she can’t tell if _Zacharie’s_ is French or Spanish or a mix of the two. Again, an odd combination.

“Good morning,” she says in return because it is polite and people get angry if you don’t speak back.

He moves one of his arms so his elbow is resting on the counter and his chin is propped up in his hand, watching her as she searches for her money. She notices that there’s something on his skin and sees that his arms are both tattooed. There’s no one else in the gift shop at the moment, so she can at least see why he seems so fixated on her right now. He smiles at her. Briefly, just for a fleeting moment, she wonders if he might be trying to get her attention for some reason - date reasons - and thinks backs to Nathaniel. She isn’t quite sure how she’d handle being asked out again mostly because she felt certain that Nathaniel might just be the last person to ever ask her out. She glances up at his face and looks back at her wallet. At the least, he has a very nice handsome face.

Her mother might like him. He’s got a nice smile and something about him is very charismatic even if he’s only said a few small words. The tattoos will worry both her parents though. Might change their opinion of him slightly.

She pulls out her exact change and his smile turns into a grin.

“Well, I won’t waste more of your time. The average reader’s patience wears thin the longer it takes to get to the romance.” Zacharie says as he puts the money in the register.

Ib stares at him and much like the guard, she asks him what he’s talking about using purely silence and facial expressions.

He either doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, or flat out ignores it.

She feels like it’s all three, even if that’s a complete contradiction - but complete contradiction somehow fits this guy.

“So do you want a bag with that?”

She shakes her head. He says “later” and she walks away and out into the pouring rain with her new umbrella.

When she comes back with lunch, she goes to take a seat in front of her painting but there is someone already sitting in front of it. A blonde little girl stares directly at it and for the third time today, Ib is overwhelmed by the feeling that this is all happened before - that she has seen a girl just like this before.

And like the umbrella, of _course_ she has.

She watches the girl for a bit, frowning.

“Viola,” an older man calls, walking up to the bench. “Let’s get going.”

The girl hops off of the seat and takes up the man’s hand. “Okay daddy!”

Ib sits down and watches them walk away as she opens up the container her lunch came in. She looks back towards the portrait and smiles a little at it, as if to ask ‘did you see them?’

There is no response, of course.

People are starting to file out of the room, leaving Ib in complete eerie silence.

A hand settles on her shoulder, making her jump. She almost drops her food and looks behind her.

“Ma’am? Oh. Ib!” It’s a security guard. She remembers his name as Neil. “Sorry, you’ve got to clear the area. Museum’s reorganizing the area.”

She stands up and begins to gather her things. “What’s happening?”

“You didn’t hear? I’m surprised! You’re usually so on top of this sorta stuff! Whole shipment of Guertena works just came in from France. Museum finally got ahold of all this lost art.”

His surprise was warranted. Even Ib was surprised. Ever since she was a child, she had a near obsession with Guertena’s art and had kept up with every bit of info since. The fact that _she_ , the junior _archivist_ , didn’t know that her museum was getting more paintings and sculpture in was pretty baffling. It was possible her superiors had kept it from her to surprise her, but something told her that wasn’t true.

Neil was still going on in the background. “-and I think they also traded some of the Mortis gallery.”

She nods. Yes, some of that gallery as well as a few others had recently been shipped out. She had thought they were just being taken out for cleaning or because of a dip in ticket sales recently, but apparently there was more to it than just money.

“Can you believe it, though? _All_ of Guertena’s known work under one roof for one month only! They even got that rose sculpture back from the MET!”

Ib looks back and at the portrait of the sleeping man.

“That’s wonderful,” she says distractedly.

* * *

Ib returns home after work and immediately goes to her room to sleep.

She lays in her bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking back to another time so much work was being done in the Guertena wing of the museum.

It was a week after she had first gone.

She had _bolted_ to the Forgotten Portrait only to find that it was gone and she had sunk down into a seat and cried.

The painting, of course, was on tour, and wouldn’t be back for another two years. It was a very popular work and for Ib’s sake, thankfully, belonged to the museum she frequented. For such a long time, it’d be crowded, dozens of people flocking to the gallery simply to get a look at the most mysterious work Guertena had ever produced. As with everything, though, interest died down, leaving it almost forgotten once more.

And with disinterest, ticket sales plummeted too.

Works from the wing frequently go out to other museums, but the Forgotten Portrait stays put.

She blinks.

All of Guertena’s work under one roof.

Ib wonders what that’s going to be like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo this lives!
> 
> SO some not so subtle references~  
> \- From Off:  
> \- The Batter (security guard Ib can't remember the name of)  
> \- Zacharie (gift shop merchant ;D)  
> \- Mortis Ghost (Mortis gallery)  
> \- To The Moon:  
> \- Neil (security guard's only got his name from To The Moon)  
> some lame puns on some vidja games, which nameless rain security guard must play because he cracks a few jokes about a downpour (Silent Hill) and some Heavy Rain (;D). ANNNNNNNNNNNNNND Viola and her father from The Witch's House. :')
> 
> Thank to the bae for helping me figure out the reason why Ib's even able to get to the Fabricated World - seriously, why would it work NOW when in all this time she hasn't been able to get through? 
> 
> Next chapter we finally get there. B)


	4. Dive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib follows instructions.

**_Cause I came here so you’d come for me_ **

She’s in the museum, although she doesn’t remember how or when she got there. It is pitch black, the lights out, security guards missing. Ib clutches a flashlight in one hand, shining it down the hallway as she walks. She passes the gift shop, but there’s no roll gate. Curious why the store isn’t properly closed, she starts to head over to it.

There’s the sound of something scurrying behind her. Ib holds her breath and turns around, flashing her light left, right, and left again. There’s nothing there.

Ib turns back around, half expecting something to jump out of her but everything is normal. She walks into the gift shop, does a bit of snooping around, and then walks back out.

And steps straight into a pool of blue paint.

Lifting her shoe, she frowns. There’s a trail of blue paint heading down the hallway and if she strains her ears, she can hear  _ something _ .

Ib doesn’t hesitate in investigating. She walks down dozens of halls but once she gets to the end of the trail, her flashlight flickers until she’s engulfed in darkness.

One of the lights overhead flicker on at the same time, leaving her in a faint fluorescent glow. She recognizes this wing of the museum and for a moment she relaxes. This is where the Forgotten Portrait sits. However, instead of just an empty room with a few benches scattered here and there, an addition has been with dozens of rose bushes slowly taking up space, greenery crawling up the walls with iveys and circling the armrests of the seats.  

It should be peaceful but the addition leaves her unsettled. Like a parasite that has wormed its way into her world. This is an invader that doesn’t belong in her safespace, no matter how gorgeous it is.

The scuffling sound makes a return.

Ib takes a step back, back towards the painting. She holds up her flashlight a bit. It might be dead, but it is still a blunt enough object to cause some sort of harm.

She keeps her eyes forward, holding her breath.

One of the bushes rustle.

Another one moves a bit to her right. It’s getting closer without her seeing it out in the open or there’s more than one. Ib braces herself for a fight-

A hand clamps down on her shoulder, cold. Ice cold, like death itself.

Ib’s scream dies in her throat as she tries to move away, but the person or  _ thing’s _ grip is strong and she can barely get a few feet forward. She looks back and sees the sleeping man, eyes still closed, gripping onto her like his very life depends on it. His arm is outstretched, breaking free from the picture frame.

He opens his mouth.

She smells oil paints.

“ _ Ib. _ ”

And Ib opens her eyes to the sight of her mother standing over her, concerned. It’s still dark in her room, other than the light from the hallway spilling in from her opened door. Her clock says it’s three a.m. Her mother is in her pajamas, looking spooked.

“ _ Ib _ ,” she repeats. “Are you alright, dear? Your father and I thought you were being killed.”

Sure enough, she spots her father with a baseball bat in hands, just past her mother.

Ib’s heart is pounding against her chest but she nods.

“Nightmare,” she mumbles, turning onto her side to stare at her closed closet.

Her parents sigh. She hears her father shuffle out of the room, saying something about how he had to be up in a few hours. She feels the bed shift as her mother settles down behind her.

“Ib, are you certain you’re okay?” she asks in that concerned tone of hers.

Ib doesn’t answer.

“Your father and I worry very much about you. Don’t think I haven’t heard you toss and turn before, young lady.”

So they know about her frequent nightmares.

“Maybe we should find you a proper therapist and get to the bottom of this once and for all, Ib.”

She doesn’t want to go to a therapist. She doesn’t know why but she knows she doesn’t want their help. Whatever it is plaguing her subconscious, she knows no amount of talking will fix it.

Her silence wins.

Her mother gets up from her spot on the bed and shuts the door behind her. Ib touches her shoulder, as if she might still feel the portrait’s cold hand on her.

* * *

Tomorrow is another day and Ib’s excitement returns even after a poor dream.

She falls back into routine easily, yesterday’s fluke just that, and comes into work a few moments before her shift even starts. Her boss goes on a bit about the event, a little peeved that the surprise was spoiled by Neil after they had worked so hard to keep Ib from finding out. It makes her smile just slightly, although no one looking at her would really call the twitch of her mouth a smile.

Before she can get a good look around, though, she has to attend to her work. She works through lunch and finishes an hour after when she was supposed to take her break. Finished for the day, she’s free to wander the gallery. She pockets her pen and takes a notebook - not the one she uses for work  _ per say _ , but one she uses for her personal work, such as observations of Guertena’s work. Obviously, the artist and his many creations had been the subject of many of Ib’s Art History papers and wanting to stay ahead of the curb both in class and in her field, she continues to do research and make notes of anything of interest she might want to search up on later.

The notebook held at her side and a bag with yesterday’s leftovers - packed courtesy of her mother this morning, since Ib had fallen asleep when she got home - Ib says a few brief words to her boss and then leaves.

She spends a while looking at the new works she hasn’t seen in person before, scribbling away in her notebook, taking photos of a few with her cellphone so she can look at them again in the privacy of her home. She ignores her favorite painting for now, leaving the room to head to some of the others that are set up, everything that’s been here for so long moved around to give the illusion it was new.

Ib steps into a long hallway and looks at the lone framed photo that has taken up the entire width of the wall. She steps back to the other side and stares at it for a long while, frowning. She doesn’t recognize the painting  _ ever _ being here, but from what she gathered all of the new works were put in the room with the Forgotten Portrait.

“And this,” she hears one of the tour guides tell his group, “is the  _ Fabricated World!  _ Or  _ Cursed Gallery _ . This large work was one of Guertena’s earliest pieces! Our museum hasn’t been home to it since the Guertena Art Wing was first opened years ago, but it’s finally made its way back to its original place! Unfortunately, most of the painting was destroyed long before it was discovered, leaving us with mere scraps that we’ve been able to put back together. While it isn’t the  _ largest _ piece we have featured here, many people say that it very well could’ve been Guertena’s biggest.”

Ib furrows her eyebrows at the tour and looks back at the painting. She waits for someone to say something about how incorrect they are, but everyone nods and takes pictures.

The painting is perfectly intact, just what is he talking about?

“Heading down this hall...” he continued, leading them away.

Ib finds she’s alone in the room now. She takes a few pictures of the painting and looks them over on her phone. It is, most certainly, fully intact.

There’s the sound of the lights flickering suddenly and Ib looks up. Like her nightmare, she’s left in the dark, alone. The quiet classical musical that was being pumped through the museum is gone, all faraway voices falling silent.

A chill run up Ib’s spine.

She walks down the hall into the previous room she was in but there is no one.

Nor are there any rose bushes or moving paintings. Although, just out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees a painting’s butterfly’s wings move for just the quickest of seconds.

She goes back to the hall to see if there’s anyone in the room the tour had went to, but stops. On the floor, there is blue paint.

_ I   b _

She stares at her name on the floor and steps back right into a puddle behind her. Turning around, she finds that  _ that paint _ also spells out something.

_ G o   d o  w n _

This must be another nightmare.

Ib wishes she at least had a flashlight with her like her last one.

She decides to explore because there are no other options to her. She goes down the stairs to the second half of the exhibit, where another painting, the  _ second largest,  _ resides.

The velvet rope used to keep people away from the painting on the floor has been removed completely. There’s footprints, but they’re in two different shades of blue this time. One the shade that she’s been seeing throughout this whole ordeal and the other much lighter.

There had to of been a scuffle, going from the prints and the few drips of what look like blood - red paint.

In shaky writing, she sees one last set of instructions.

_ D i v e _

Warily, Ib looks towards  _ Abyss of the Deep _ . She takes out her phone and puts it in the now empty container her lunch had come in. The last thing she needs is for her phone to get fried. Assuming this isn’t some bad dream and is in fact reality.

Ib puts the container back into her bag, along with her notebook.

She steps forward, takes a deep breath, and plunges in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're in. Finally.
> 
> Reading up on the Fabricated World on the Ib wiki and I found out something I never knew - apparently others can't SEE the Fabricated World. Funny, huh?
> 
> So, since someone says that "Abyss of the Deep" is Guertena's largest work in the gallery, since they can't see Fabricated World, I came up with an excuse for it. 
> 
> People can SEE the Fabricated World, but to them it's broken up and in bad condition. Those 'chosen' by it can see the painting how it really is. Ib took pictures of the Fabricated World on her cellphone and saw the painting the same but if someone else were to look at the pictures on there, they'd still see a broken mess. 
> 
> Anyway, yeah, two chapters, one day, I'm bored.


	5. Concealed Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib explores the Fabricated World and finds an old familiar face. Well, sorta.

_You’re the galantine_

_Cold and alone, it suits you well_

She feels like she’s floating as she slowly sinks through the painting. Her feet have yet to touch the ground by the time her lungs feel like they’re going to burst and she finally opens her mouth. But there’s air. She can breathe just fine and then it’s just her alone with her thoughts and the darkness around her. She can see her hands and legs so there’s some sort of light, but she can’t see her surroundings. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she doesn’t exist anymore.

Ib wonders if this is what her life is going to be from now on. If she’s stuck here floating forever.

Without warning, it all comes to an end.

The sound of a large splash echoes in her ears and all light leaves. When it comes back, Ib stands at the top of a stairwell, dry and her bag still by her side. She looks up. There’s only a ceiling. If she isn’t dreaming, then something unnatural is going on and she doesn’t want to waste any time where she’s standing now. She wants to get back home fast so she makes quick work of taking her phone back out and stuffing it into her pocket.

She contemplates keeping her lunchbox with her for a moment before setting it down at the top of the stairs. Wherever she is, it’ll be too in the way, and somehow she knows it won’t be beneficial to her. Her notebook almost meets the same end, but after a moment she decides to roll the flimsy composition book up and stick it in her pocket too.

The walls are a dark blue and she can’t very easily see what’s at the bottom of the stairwell, but she takes the steps slowly, one at a time. When she makes it to the bottom, she notices that it’s a near empty hall splitting off in two seemingly endless directions - left and right. Directly in front of her, on the wall, is a painting she recalls seeing just moments before the lights went off.

It’s one of the new pieces.

 _Concealed Secret_.

The hand snakes its way out of the red curtains. Looking at the painting gives Ib a foreboding feeling. She frowns at it and goes to make her way to the right when she hears a soft scratching.

The hand, which had been part of just a normal painting before, is now wiggling, the nails running along the canvas- it is _breaking free of its canvas_ _and reaching out for Ib_.

She takes a step back. It’s like her nightmares, but this time she feels it’s real.

She feels its fingertips graze the fabric of her shirt and she bolts down the hallway, running until she feel like her lungs might burst and she comes into another open room.

There’s another painting on the wall but she doesn’t come near it. She stays right in front of the archway, doubled over to catch her breath for a moment before she decides to interact with anything in the room.

The painting on the wall is _also_ a part of the new collection, _Deja Vu_. There’s nothing in it that’s even slightly humanoid so she feels certain that she’s safe around in. There is, however, a fully bloomed rose sitting in a vase of water. That isn’t what really grabs her attention.

What grabs Ib’s attention is the clear marble sitting alongside it.

It’s so small, it’s easy to miss, but Ib picks it up between her index finger and her thumb, and plops it onto her palm.

She stares at it, as if expecting something to happen.

Nothing does.

She reaches out for the rose but something darts between her legs suddenly, gigglin. She doesn’t get a good look at whatever it is, but it sends her flying, tripping right into the table and spilling the water everywhere. In the act, she drops the the marble straight onto the flower. Her fingers come in contact with the thornless rose and there’s a rush of images - a sudden onslaught of memories. Deja vu.

It’s clear. As clear as if it was just yesterday.

Her ten year old self, walking a similar hall, coming upon a similar rose - the word thief scribbled all over the walls, yelled at her by a figureless voice, hands jutting out of the walls-

And that’s where the images cut short. She’s left standing there, the vase broken at her feet from where it was jostled by the table being knocked into, the rose clutched tightly in her hand and the marble gone.

Ib stares at the mess, eyes unfocused.

She has been here before, but she doesn’t know how or what happened. She doesn’t remember how she escaped the last time.

If she did before, though, then she’ll do it again.

As she walks away slowly, back the way she came (this is a dead end, unfortunately, meaning she’ll have to walk past that hand once more), Ib hears paint dripping. She glances back and sees words on the wall.

_L O S T  Y O U R  M A R B L E S  I B ?_

Ib doesn’t react.

She turns back and walks forward. That’s all she _can_ do.

* * *

The painting is gone.

At least, she _believes_ it’s gone. She isn’t quite sure if she’s in the same place now that there’s no other indicators of where she is.

She finally comes another room. Another room with, presumably an exit.

There’s something different about this world than the last time she was here. While she doesn’t remember nearly enough of the previous visit, she remembers the feeling it held. It was very much alive. She can distinctly recall this vibration of energy resting against her skin, forcing the hairs on the back of her neck to stay straight up at all times. But now it’s very dead. Very quiet.

There are no hands reaching out for her.

She can hear faint whispers.

It’s nothing she can understand. It’s either too quiet, too low, or just not English.

Her footsteps echo.

The room is and purple. There’s paintings of women on the wall - _The Lady in Red_ , dressed in all sorts of colors instead of the portrait that rests back in the real gallery. All of their eyes follow Ib and there’s tension in the air but they never touch her. There’s three doors. Two, she finds, are locked, but the third on the right is wide open and from what she can see, it’s pitch black. She stares for a while, shuffling her feet, then goes to take a step forward.

“Hey!” a friendly voice calls out.

Ib stops mid-step. She glances around.

“Down here, silly!” the voice calls again.

Ib looks down at her feet and sees a small speck of an ant.

“Hi there! Are you one of those ladies missing from their frames?” the ant asks her.

She blinks back at it in response. She doesn’t know what to say to this talking ant. It’s by no means _the weirdest_ thing she’s seen so far, but it’s still a little odd. And she doesn’t know what it’s talking about.

“Geeze, lady, don’t just stare at me. What’s the matter with ya, you never see a talkin’ ant before?”

She shakes her head.

“Well that’s downright _disturbing_ . So _are_ you one of those missing ladies?”

“No,” she answers.

“Oh.”

It’s quiet again. Ib expects the ant to further explain but it doesn’t.

“What missing ladies?”

“The ladies in the dresses. They’ve all been disappearing since Mary left.”

That just brings up more questions.

“Well, the gallery’s under new management now,” that’s not true. The gallery’s been under the same management for years. Ib doesn’t say anything so the ant never finds it out. “And the dolls’ve been restless. They run around causing problems for everyone. The ladies tried to chase ‘em back to their rooms but that just made them angrier so they started doin’ all kinds of bad things. And _He_ doesn’t care what any of them do, so everyone’s out to get each other.”

“Who is _He_?”

“You know. _Him_.”

Ib doesn’t think she’ll get any better answer so she tries something else. “How do the ladies disappear? Is it the dolls?”

“Sometimes it’s the dolls. Sometimes it’s worse. The ladies can leave their frames but if their frames are destroyed there’s no way to get back in and that leaves them vulnerable.”

She nods. That’s important information. If she sees broken frames, she should probably steer clear. Something bad might be near.

“So you’re not one of them ladies?”

She shakes her head again.

“Huh. Are you one of the new paintings?”

Ib doesn’t know what will happen to her if she says no. She nods.

“Do you know about that creepy hand then?”

Ib _knows_ it exists but she doesn’t know much else other than the fact that it tried to grab her. Ib shrugs.

“Aw c’mon, you’ve _gotta_ give me _some_ info after all I gave ya, newbie! People pay for info!”

What an ant could possibly want with money is beyond her. She starts to move forward again towards the dark room.

“Wait lady-!” the ant calls out again, but Ib steps over him and into the room.

The door slams shut behind her and locks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so iono gonna also use lyrics from OOOOOTHER songs for this fic cause I'm trash. 
> 
> Looks like the Fabricated World's gone and thrown itself all out of sorts - in fighting with art work, geeze, guess Mary was the only thing keepin' this place together, huh? Whoops~.
> 
> :)c What's up with that room Ib just entered I wonder?  
> No seriously guys, what's up with it? I just wrote that shit, I don't actually know what's in there or why the door locked. Guess future me's gotta figure it out too ;P
> 
> And what's up with Concealed Secret?  
> ...Well okay, THAT'S something I can actually answer. But I won't. Cause yo, there's my only form of plot.
> 
> Let's hope Ib can find the rest of her marbles and maybe a certain someone.


End file.
